Torture to Her Soul

by J. M. Darhower

  His eyes widen with surprise. "She ratted on her mother?"

  "So she says," I respond. "Says she thought it was the perfect solution to keep us all safe, but she risked herself doing it. Who's going to protect her now?"

  "You." He says it with no hesitation. "Like I said, we protect what we love."

  "I'm not sure I can do it."

  "Come on, Ignazio. You're a lot of things, things I don't like, but I was always proud of your courage. You didn't get my integrity, but you got my guts. Seems to me if anyone can protect her, it would be you."

  "But Ray—"

  He cuts me off with the bitterest laugh I've ever heard, the kind that tightens my chest.

  "Raymond Angelo," he says, shaking his head. "Never liked that guy. Don't like who he is, don't like what he turned you into."

  "He didn't turn me into anything."

  "Didn't he?" he counters. "Way I see it, he created this demon... created it, and fears it, with the way he tries to keep you under his thumb. But you don't owe him anything. It doesn't matter what Angelo thinks or what he wants. You got that girl into this mess."

  "I didn't—"

  "You did," he says, a hard edge to his voice. "She wouldn't be in this situation if not for you. You carry some of the blame. And if something bad happens to her, you'll carry that blame, too. I raised you to be a man. A man. Not this."

  He waves his hands my way to prove his point.

  "But there are rules," I say, "rules we follow."

  "Bullshit," he says. "You think someone like Raymond Angelo respects rules? He makes it all up as he goes to suit his own needs. Because that's all he cares about: himself. He doesn't care about this neighborhood or these people, and he doesn't care about you. You think these police don't care? Take a look at who's around you, because they don't care, either."

  Months ago, I would've come to Ray's defense, but I don't have it in me at the moment. My silence doesn't slip past my father, who laughs to himself as he climbs to his feet. Without saying goodbye, he starts to walk away, making it a few feet before turning back to me.

  "You want some advice, Ignazio?"

  Hesitating, I nod.

  "People make mistakes. They do things sometimes that you don't like, that you wouldn't do. But that doesn't mean you should give up on them, that you should write them off. Because nobody is hopeless as long as they're still breathing."

  "That's good advice."

  "It's something your mothers been telling me for years," he says. "I haven't been able to listen, myself, but maybe you'll prove to be a better man than me."

  "Unlikely."

  He laughs. "Yeah, you're right. But Ignazio? Make your choice, not Angelo's. Because I guarantee Angelo's choice only benefits him."

  I stand there, watching as he disappears down the street. Once he's gone, I head toward my car, wanting to be gone before my mother wakes. I drive back toward Brooklyn, considering my father's words.

  What would I do if it were my choice?

  I'd do everything in my power to make Karissa happy. I'd walk through fire, burn every broken bridge and sever every tainted tie to give the woman what she deserves. I'd give her the world, not take it away. I'd protect her life, not end it.

  If it were my choice, I'd say fuck Ray.

  Fuck his rules.

  Fuck his plans.

  The sun is starting to rise when I make it to my neighborhood, a strange sort of resolve settling through me, like my choice has been made without me even having to make it.

  Like there wasn't even a choice at all.

  My father was right, as much as I hate to admit it.

  I feel relief, but the sensation doesn't last. The second my house comes into sight, my stomach bottoms out, my insides plunging.

  The police are here.

  A car sits in my driveway, in my usual spot, while another is double parked at the curb. I swing into my driveway, nearly side-swiping the unmarked cruiser, the back of my Mercedes sticking out into the street. Climbing out, I slam the door, rushing toward the house, my heart racing.

  Not good.

  Not good at all.

  Not fucking good.

  The front door is unlocked, the knob turning smoothly. As soon as I shove it open, I nearly run into the back of a man. Before I can say a word or even get a good look at my surroundings, the sound of hysterical sobbing slams right into me. My eyes dart toward the source, seeing Karissa. She sits on the couch, hands covering her face, crying as a familiar man sits beside her.

  Jameson.

  In my house.

  On my couch.

  With Karissa.

  "What's going on here?"

  The second I speak, Karissa chokes on a sob. She lifts her head up, meeting my gaze. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is splotchy, distress weighing her down. She opens her mouth, her words cracking as she forces them from her lips. "My mom," she cries. "She's dead."

  I don't react for a moment, trying to force down the anger that rushes through me. It mixes with the unexpected swell of regret inside my gut, making me feel sick. They came to notify her. They put together the pieces.

  "Get out of my house," I say, eyes darting between the officers. "Now."

  They try to argue, but I cut them off.

  "I'm asking you nicely to leave my property," I say. "It's within my right to remove you."

  "Remove us?" Jameson asks, slowly climbing to his feet as the others walk out. "Is that a threat, Mr. Vitale?"

  "No, it's a fact."

  "Is that so?"

  "It is."

  He nods, strolling my way, and pauses right in front of me. He stares dead in my eyes, unwavering, unblinking, not an ounce of apprehension in his expression. He has me this time, he thinks. He's got me all figured out. But he doesn't know me like he believes he does, or he'd know there's no way I'm ever going to be taken down by a man like him. We're enemies.

  Men like me?

  We see the end at the hands of a friend.

  "You want to know what I think?" he asks.

  I don't respond. I don't move. I don't care what he thinks about anything.

  "I think it's curious," he continues, not needing any urging, "that you don't seem the least bit surprised. A woman you grew up with, your fiancée's mother, is dead, and you're not surprised at all, are you?"

  Again, I say nothing.

  "Curious," he says again. "It's almost as if you already knew."

  He slips past me, and I watch as he makes his way out the door, closing it behind him. The crying has quieted, strained silence overtaking the room. I turn back to the couch once we're alone, meeting Karissa's gaze.

  Horrified eyes regard me.

  She heard what he just said.

  "You knew." Her bottom lip trembles as she tries to hold herself together, but she's failing horribly. She's a flimsy house of cards that's about to collapse under her own weight. All it'll take is a single breath, the force of a few wrong words, to sending her crashing down. "You… Oh God, no… you didn't. Tell me you didn't!"

  Tears stream from her eyes, coating her cheeks. Wordlessly, I step toward her, ignoring the fact that she flinches when I come close. Sitting beside her on the couch, I pull her into my arms, not loosening my hold when she tries to shove me away. Her quiet tears once more turn to hysterical sobs as I hold her tightly, restraining her.

  "Tell me you didn't do it," she cries, fighting me. "Tell me it wasn't you!"

  "Shhh," I whisper into her hair. "It's going to be okay."

  "No!" she yells, choking on the word. "Tell me! Tell me you didn't do this, that you wouldn't do this! After everything we've been through, everything I've been through, tell me you wouldn't do this!"

  She doesn't wait for me to tell her.

  She knows, deep down, I can't.

  I don't want to lie, and she doesn't want to hear the truth.

  The silence is filled by her sobs as her hostility wavers, giving way to the devastation. She cries into my chest, her body
violently shaking in my arms. I try to console her, but my words only make it worse.

  The guilt nags at me until I can hardly breathe. The pain that coats her seems to seep into me.

  I did this.

  There's no way around that.

  I caused this.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry, Karissa."

  Those words bring back her anger, kick-starting her rage. She hits me, shoves against me, slipping out of my arms when I'm momentarily stunted by her aggression. She climbs to her feet, still crying, her eyes wild and face flushed.

  "Are you?" Her voice trembles. "Are you sorry?"

  "I am," I admit, surprised by how much I mean those words. "I never meant—"

  "You never meant to hurt me," she says as she throws her hands up, masking her pain with the fury I can see burning in her eyes. "You're not sorry you hurt her, are you? You're not sorry you killed her, that you took her life, that you took her from me, are you? No, you're not! You're not sorry at all!"

  "Your mother wasn't innocent."

  "She's not innocent? None of us are innocent! My mother made mistakes, my mother wasn't perfect, but she was my mother! She was my… my mom… she was my mom. You killed her, you took her from me, and all you can say is she wasn't innocent? What's wrong with you?"

  Too much, I think.

  Way too much for either of us to ever understand.

  "Tell me this is a sick joke," she continues, pleading with me, her emotions shifting so quickly I can hardly keep up. "Tell me this isn't real. Tell me she's not dead. You told me if I went with you that day, if I didn't wake her up, you'd let her live. And I did… I went with you. I've stayed with you. I did everything I could to save her. I wanted her to live. I even turned her into the police! Tell me that wasn't for nothing. Please. Tell me she isn't really dead!"

  Her words make that guilt consume me, turning my insides to ice, freezing my muscles as I stare at the trembling mess of a woman in front of me. Is that why she stayed with me? Why she opened herself back up to me? Was it just to save her mother?

  Was it never about me? About us?

  The questions Ping-Pong around in my head, fueling bitter thoughts that nearly fly from my lips. The sense of betrayal is so frigid I'm afraid those answers might make me break, snap right in half like an icicle.

  "Please," she whispers, wrapping her arms around her chest like she's trying to hold herself together. "Tell me this isn't real."

  Sighing, my gaze drops from hers. "I'm sorry."

  Before the last syllable is from my lips, Karissa hits the floor, her legs giving out on her. Her cries shake the room, rattling my fucking brain. Closing my eyes, I run my hands through my hair, gripping handfuls and pulling, trying to distract myself with the pain. Tears sting my eyes, tears I don't want to cry, tears I don't want to feel. I don't want it. I don't want any of this.

  I wanted justice.

  All I got was more heartbreak.

  They say when seeking revenge, dig two graves, one for you and one for them. I've buried them all, disposed of bodies and left a trail of charred remains in my wake, and now all that's left is my own grave. And I dug it, all right… dug it so deep there's no fucking way out of it.

  No way out of it, and I'm seconds away from dragging a woman I love into it with me yet again.

  "Go." The word is from my lips without a second thought. I can't give it a second thought or the selfish monster inside of me will stop it, with stop this moment of weakness. "Go. Now. Before I can't let you go again."

  "What?"

  Her voice is tear-filled and full of confusion. I open my eyes, looking at her. The sight of her distress hurts.

  I have to look back away.

  "Leave, if you want. If you want out, go. I won't come after you."

  "You won't?"

  I try not to be hurt by the hope I hear in her question.

  Try, and fail.

  It fucking hurts.

  "I won't," I say. "If you want to leave, I'll let you leave."

  She stares at me, expression blank, as she tries to come to terms with what I'm saying.

  "I don't want you to," I tell her, the words spilling out of me, a hitch in my voice. I've never felt so vulnerable in my life, cracking myself open for her. "Letting go of you will kill me. So I'm asking you to stay… to stay with me. It's my turn to ask you to stay this time. But it's up to you. I can't make this choice. You're going to have to make it. Stay or go."

  She slowly pulls herself to her feet and takes a step back. One step. That's all it takes. My insides break.

  "Don't ever come back," I tell her. "Never come around here again. You walk out that door, Karissa, for both of our sakes, you can never come back here."

  She hesitates.

  One.

  Two.

  Three seconds.

  And then she turns around.

  I close my eyes again. I don't watch as she leaves. I can't.

  As soon as she's out the door, those tears burning my eyes break free.

  I cry for the first time in twenty years.

  So this is grief…

  Cobalt is quiet this afternoon.

  Kelvin stands watch at the door, as usual, back to averting his eyes as I walk past. I ignore him, strolling through the club, straight toward where Ray sits with a few others. They all look up as I approach, silence befalling them. The man sitting to Ray's left vacates the leather seat, no words necessary. I sit down wordlessly, my expression stoic.

  "Gentlemen," Ray says, clearing his throat. "Why don't you give me some time with my son-in-law."

  So many years later and he still calls me that.

  It makes us family, more family than these other schmucks, but that doesn't make much of a difference at the end of the day.

  He'd fuck me over worse than the others, if anything.

  He already has.

  The men mutter amongst themselves as they disperse, while Brandy, ever-present these days, stays seated with Ray. The waitress approaches then, holding a bottle of pale ale, but I hold up my hand, refusing it.

  "Double scotch," I tell her. "Single malt."

  She hesitates. "Do you… do you want me to pour it?"

  "I'm assuming that's still the bartender's job, but if that's what tickles your fancy, sweetheart, have at it."

  She gapes at me for a second before nodding and disappearing with the beer. I turn my gaze from her to Ray, who eyes me warily. Even Brandy seems to be taken by surprise, as if the girl actually knows me enough to be caught off guard by anything I do.

  "Scotch," Ray says. "Walking on the wild side, are you? Drinking my liquor… next thing you know, you might actually start eating my wife's cooking again."

  "I just might," I say, eyeing Brandy, watching as she makes a face at the mention of Ray's wife. "Speaking of, when's the last time you spent any time with Martina? Every time I see you now, you're with her."

  Brandy's expression twists again, this time marked with anger as she glares at me. Ray cuts his eyes at her, shrugging slightly as he takes a sip of his own drink. "We do what makes us happy."

  "No, we do what we're supposed to do," I counter just as the waitress returns with my drink. I take it from her, gulping some of it down. It's like fire in my frazzled veins. "Or at least, that's what I was always taught. We do what we must, not what we want."

  Ray eyes me warily, ordering the waitress away when she tries to get him another drink, waiting until the woman is gone before responding. "Something you want to talk about, Vitale? Something happen with that, uh… situation?"

  "She won't be a problem anymore," I say, drinking more to burn the feeling out of my chest. "She's gone."

  "Gone where?"

  I cut my eyes at him, sipping the liquor. He's curious, that much is clear. He wants to know if she's dead, but he doesn't want to come out and ask me.

  "Doesn't really matter," I say coldly. "She's gone like the rest of them."

  He mulls it over for a second, tapping h
is finger against the rim of his glass. "What did it?"

  "I came home yesterday and the police were there," I say. "Jameson was at my house… in my house."

  "So you dealt with it."

  "I dealt with it."

  It's not a lie, technically.

  It's not my fault if he misconstrues what I'm saying.

  "Ah, see, I knew it," Ray says smugly, nodding to himself, a slight smile touching his lips. "So now you see."

  Yes, now I see...

  Now I see what a self-righteous bastard he is.

  Now I see how dangerous he can be.

  Now I see that my father was right, that Raymond Angelo isn't someone I should look up to, that this isn't the type of man he raised me to be.

  My hands will never be clean. I'll never erase what I've done, and I don't want to. If you're still looking for an apology about that, you need to look elsewhere. My one regret is Karissa—the pain I caused her, the way I hurt her, after I swore I wouldn't. She got the only apology anyone will get out of me. But she's gone now, and I've got nothing left to give.

  "Now I see," I tell him, finishing my drink before setting the glass down on the table. "And now I'm out."

  He gapes at me as I stand up. "You're out?"

  "I got everything out of it I can get, Ray. I bled it dry, and now there's nothing left for me. I finished what I started, what you needed me to do… what I needed to do… and now I'm done."

  "You think you can just walk away?"

  "I don't think I can," I say. "I'm going to."

  I hold my hand out toward him, to shake his. He stares at it for a moment, his expression hard, before he meets my eyes. He takes it, gripping firmly, almost to the point of pain.

  It doesn't faze me, though.

  He could shoot me in the face, and I wouldn't flinch.

  "She ruined you," he says.

  "She didn't ruin me," I say. "She just made me realize there wasn't anything left to salvage in the first place. I died with your daughter, Raymond. I'm the walking dead, and nobody loves a monster. Nobody."

  I pull my hand from his, eye shifting to Brandy. She's watching me curiously. My eyes trail over her. She's showing more skin than she's covering.

  I turn back to Ray, shaking my head. "Appreciate what you have, while you have it. God knows I wish I could've kept what I had."